You are ill
by rapalacha
Summary: John Watson gets sick. And Sherlock Holmes plays doctor. No slash, just fun and friendship. May continue if you wish.
1. Chapter 1

His head was very heavy and his knees felt like made from jelly, but he was much more himself than half an hour ago. The long hot shower makes miracles. John entered the living room and realised his eccentric flatmate is already up sitting on the sofa deep in thoughts about God-knows-what.

„Morning" John mumbled and carefully walked towards the kitchen to have his morning cuppa. His head was still spinning a bit, but he was sure he could manage. The kettle clicked and John sat at the table lifting the papers.

„You are ill." John almost fell down from the chair - he didn´t hear Sherlock coming to the kitchen. He was now standing at the table watching John very intently.

„You are ill, indeed." Sherlock repeted - and it was not a question - just a simple statement.

„No, I´m fine. I´m just tired, becouse SOMEBODY was bored and felt the need to practice Tchaikovsky´s violin concerto till 3 in the morning so I didn´t have much sleep, did I?."

Sherlock didn´t move an inch and was still starring at John.

„No, you didn´t sleep very well, but I doubt there is Tchaikovsky to blaim. Your hair is dampf but you never wash your hair in the morning so you must have felt uncomfortable after the all night sweating and decided to take a hot shower, maybe you hoped it would help to free your blocked nasal cavity too and it worked for a while. You even took some medication, I heard you look in your medical bag, I guess it was some ibuprofen sice you´re allergic to paracetamol. And than - of course- you look ill. Pale, red eyes, running nose, flushed cheeks. So, obvious-you are sick. Go back to bed."

John Watson was a very patient man. Actually anybody who wants to live with Sherlock Holmes must be incredibly patient. But at some point, even John started to loose it. And this was one of those moments. He hated being seen though and through not being able to hide anything. No privacy at all.

„Or maybe I just took the shower because-I don´t know - I am fanatic hygiene-fan? Or I wanted to drown myself in the shower? For God´s sake, Sherlock! Why do you even care. Let me give you a little piece of advise - Mind your own bussines and don´t try to pretend..."speaking he furiosly stand up from the chair and than, suddenly, everything went black.

Of course Sherlock saw this coming. He knew John is about to faint seconds before it happened. John´s unconscious body safely landed in Sherlock´s open arms and was carefully lowered down to the floor. The first two buttons on John´s shirt were opened and his legs were propped against the chair.

The first thing John saw after he woke up was his friend´s frowning face in a very close proximity, because Sherlock was kneeling beside him.

„Sherlock?"

„John...Don´t worry. You were unconscious for exactly 8.5 seconds and I don´t anticipate any long time effects. Can you follow my finger, please." Sherlock showed his middle finger right before John´s eyes as in a standard neurological exam moving it right, left, up and down. John was a bit confused, but obeyed.

„Good. Neurologicaly intacted. Well obviosly there are many things wrong with your brain, but we´ll consider this a pre-existing condition."

„Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" John finally managed to form a sentence.

„Hmm..." Sherlock now pressed his fingers against John´s carotid and checked his clock.

„Basicaly - you fainted and I´m taking your pulse to see if there is any real danger. Hmm...elevated. You need to calm down, John."

„OK. This is just ridiculous. I have to go to work. My head was spinning a bit, but I just need a proper breakfast and I´ll be as good as new." John replied and struggled back on his feet. But he was stopped by a storng hand on his shoulder, which pressed him back to the floor.

„Easy, easy. You know what will happen if you try to get up to early and too fast, don´t you, DOCTOR?"

John had to admitt he still felt very weak. Maybe getting up wasn´t such a great idea after all.

„You know, John, I always thought you are not this obvious. You know how I hate people being obvious." Sherlock continued.

„Sorry, what?"

„You know, this whole cliché thing about doctors being the worst patients, I hoped you would be more original - or at least innovative...Well one can´t have everything. At least promise you will go straight to bed."

John was still pinned to the floor by Sherlock´s strong grip so he had no real chance to refuse, but somhow bed sounded very pleasant right now. He nodded.

„Fine. Ready to get up now? Very slowly. Let me help." Sherlock stretched one hand to help John up and the other hand was ready behind John´s shoulder not really touching him but ready to steady him if there was the need. He led John slowly to his bedroom watching his every step.

„Get changed. I´ll be right back." Sherlock said and left John sitting on the bed.

A few minutes later Sherlock was happy to find John in his pyjamas lying under the duvet.

„Finally." he commented and placed a mug of steaming tea and John´s medical bag on the night-table. Than he sat on the bed next to John and made the most bored face he was capable of.

„I hate to do this. But sice you are clearly uncapable of taking care of yourself, I have to. So please be honest and quick, I have other things to do than this mother-henning you. So tell me what hurts?"

John was a bit shocked. But he felt really sick and honestly, it was great to have someone asking and caring.

„Head, spine, muscles. And I have chills."

„What about nausea? Dizziness?"

„Oh yes. So what is it ,doctor Holmes? Do I have a cold?"

„Come on, John. Don´t be such a teenager. We both know you do. The question is how to ease your symptoms the best. Open up."

Sherlock retrieved a digital thermometer from John´s bag and placed it under his friend´s tongue. They waited a few silent moments till the thermometer beeped and Sherlock checked the reading.

„38.6. What medication are you on?"

„Iboprofen, 400mmg an hour ago."

„OK, that should do the trick for now. I´ll be back in two hours with another dosage and some lunch. Try to get some sleep I´ll be downstairs so if there is anything just text me."

He got up to leave the room and John felt his cheeks blushing and it was not just the fever.

„Thank you, Sherlock." he said weakly.

„You´re welcome. I´d be lost without my blogger."


	2. Chapter 2

"John...John. Wake up."

The room was dark and the only light was coming through the space in slightly opened door.

"Come on. Wake up." Sherlock's voice was low, almost whispering, but also very demanding. His hand was placed on top of John's duvet and somewhere uder many layers of thick fabric was his friend's shouder. He shook it gently, getting a little unpatient.

"There we go." he said, relived, as John slowly opened his eyes and focused his sight on him.

"Sorry to wake you, but it's time for your drugs. How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked and placed his hand on the other's man forehead.

"I don't know...Dead, maybe?" John replied weakly.

"Oh, wonderful. Am I not supposed to be the Drama Queen here? I'd say you should be much cooler about this." Yes, cooler. John should be much much cooler, litteraly. His forehead felt like black car parked on direct sun for way too long.

"I'm cold."

"Yes, you are. But you are also very hot, which is much more dangerous. We need to take your temperature again."

The termometer was still lying at the beside table after the last check-up and Sherlock put it carefully into John's mouth. Hesitating to take back his hand he stroke his friend's hair and continued the comforting caressing touch down his cheek and exposed neck, where his finger finally stopped at the pulse point and howered there for a minute measuring the madly racing pace of the overwhelmed heart.

"So how am I doing?" John asked after Sherlock got the result from the thermometer.

"Not quite as well as I hoped. Hopefully this fever will go down with medication."

John smiled. Well, attempted to. It was just a little tired grin.

"Numbers, Sherlock. Numbers! I'm the doctor here, remember? And believe it or not medicine is still science based on exact numbers."

"Ehm...No change. You're holding at 39.9" Sherlock lied. There was no need to scare the good doctor. He had already texted Mycroft to send his private doctor as the first thing in the morning, he should be here in two hours, so no need to panic. Everything will be cared for.

"Good, that's good." John mumbled going to sleep once again.

"No, no sleeping just yet. Sit up and take this." he showed him a dark blue pill in his palm.

"600mmg of ibuprofenum and 20 of pseudoefedrine."

"Good choice." John commented sleepily and was helped to sit up and swallowed the drug along with a few sips of water. But Sherlock still wasn't content. Holding up the glass in front of John he rolled his eyes.

"Really, John? Fever plus dehydration equals what? What happened to the SCIENCE of medicine?"

Now it was John's turn to roll his eyes. But he took the glass back and managed another few sips before Sherlock looked happier again and set the half-empty glass on the bedside table.

John was exhausted. He collapsed on the pillow and before drifting off to sleep completely he could hear Sherlock whispering.

"Good night, John. See you in 2 hours."

Actually, it was not two. It was four. Mycroft's doctor had been late. There was no point of waking John earlier, he needed his sleep. But Sherlock found it suddenly very difficult to wait. Of course he never left John's room. He was sitting in chair within reaching distance from John's bed and with an opened book in his lap but he suddenly realised he is trying to read the same page for over an hour not understanding a word from it. Than the book was closed and abandoned on the floor when the doorbell rang.

John was awaken by the sound of talking in the corridor. There was a familiar baritone and another male voice he did not recognise- Lestrade? No, certainly not. Mycroft than? Before he could finish his deduction there was a knock on the door and the owner of that voice entered his room with Sherlock on his heels. No wonder he didn't recognise him, it was a complete stranger. Wait, what is a stranger doing in his bedroom? Is this some kind of Sherlock's ill jokes?

"Doctor Watson, I should presume." The stranger said. "No need for handshakes or any other plesantries. Try not to exhaust yourself any further. I am Doctor Stephen Bennet and I'm here to see how you're doing."

He moved the now empty chair closer to the bed, sat down, put his big leather case on the floor and opening it he revealed various medical supplies.

"Ehm...Sorry to be impolite, but I'm pretty sure I did't call for a doctor. I don't need one. It's just a common cold. And what kind of doctor even does house calls these days, anyway?" John tried his best to sound angry, but it was almost imposible with his throat aching (when the hell did this start?) and with all the weakness he felt. It was difficult even to form words.

Doctor Bennet smiled hanging his stethoscope around his neck.

"Well, I don't do this very often either. But Mr Holmes here apperantly felt you require medical attention immediately. And I must agree with his opinion just by the look at you. Now shall we proceed with the examiation?"

John gave Sherlock one last angry/exhausted look and finally, nodded to the doctor.

"Very well than." doctor Bennet said and took John's wrist to feel his pulse.

"I'll leave you some privacy." Sherlock said almost timidly and left the room.

He was left to deducing what was going on behind the door just by the sounds he heard.

Quiet talking-doctor Bennet, short weak answers-John. Asking about symptoms than.

Thermometer beeped. Oh God, is the fever finally down?

Pumping. Blood pressure taken. Bet it's low.

Silence. Than coughing. Heart and lungs being listened.

Talking again. Diagnosis concluded.

"Mr Holmes, you may come in." Sherlock was in the room within one second, looking at doctor Bennet quite expectantly.

"Well, your partner has a flu. Not very mild one, through. The medication he has been taking seems not effective enough to fight the fever, which is why we agreed with doctor Watson to try wide-spectral antivirotics."

He handed Sherlock a bottle of pills. Tamiflu the label said.

"This is to be taken every 6 hours. And make sure he has plenty of fluids. And should his fever spike over forty again call me stat. I'll be back this evening around 8 to check on him."

He got up and grabbed his bag.

"Have a good day, Mr Holmes and see you this evening" he shook Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you, doctor."

"My pleasure. And give my best to your brother." Sherlock forced a smile. He hated he owed Mycroft this one. But than he looked back at the bed where John was once again asleep and smiled for real this time. Anything was worth it. Anything for his blogger.


End file.
